


Igni, Candles, Obnoxiously Attractive Elves Oh My

by thegreatblondebalrogslayer



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Arm Wrestling, Gen, M/M, like very emotional and maybe a little erotic arm wrestling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatblondebalrogslayer/pseuds/thegreatblondebalrogslayer
Summary: Geralt isn't staring, not really, it's more art appreciation. Until it isn't.Or; Geralt lucks his way into an arm wrestling match with Iorveth and somehow things escalate from there.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Igni, Candles, Obnoxiously Attractive Elves Oh My

Geralt wouldn’t ever admit it, but as his latest venture into the world of politics and kings continues on, he became more and more obsessed with Iorveth. Iorveth’s hands to be more precise. They were strong but not overbearingly so. Gentle but not fragile. Willful but not forceful. Enraged but not wholly consumed by it, not yet at least. Or perhaps not anymore.

And  _ he  _ had definitely been spending too much time around Dandelion lately. 

Yet he seemed to jump at the chance to study the elf’s hand’s. After the  _ second _ time he bound Iorveth’s hands, he realized what he was doing. He was becoming  _ attached _ . He remembered so little but he  _ knew _ in whatever remained of his mutated and deranged heart that his  _ attachments _ to people had never ended well for him. 

He knew it and yet… And yet he wondered why he continued to maintain the few he still had. In Dandelion. In Zoltan. In the vague yet powerful memories of the sorceress  _ Yennefer _ . He couldn’t even begin to imagine what his relationship was with his daughter. His  _ daughter. _ No, he couldn’t think of her now. Whoever she was.  _ Is  _ something deep inside him screamed out,  _ who she  _ **_is_ ** _.  _

He often felt as if someone was screaming from within him these days. He supposed it might be himself, or whatever pieces of himself he was still missing. Some days he wanted to let whatever it was out and scream from the top of the stone gates. 

He didn’t. 

Yet. 

For now, he contented himself with playing errand boy for Philippa. And Iorveth and his hands.

But today he ought to take a break from it all; from lifting curses, from Philippa, from Iorveth. He sighed as he sat down at the only empty table in the inn. Dandelion glanced his way and frowned at him but made no move to come to him. That was one of the strangest things Geralt had noted about his minstrel friend. Dandelion was impetuous and arrogant at the best of times, downright narcissistic and rude most of the rest. 

But he  _ knew _ Geralt. He  _ knew  _ him and it terrified him. He knew when he ought to comfort, annoy, prod, leave him alone. And Geralt didn’t even know what he wanted or needed half the time. More than half. 

He bitterly took a deep swig of his ale. Then another. And another. He sighed and pulled the lone candle sitting on the table closer to him. He cast igni. Then waved his hand through the flame. He cast igni again. He waved his hand once more. Igni. Wave. Igni. Wave. Igni.

He was so engrossed in his little game that he didn’t even notice the group of elves that had entered the inn. Everyone else did and a quick hush fell over the patrons. Geralt looked up with bleary eyes. He blinked at Iorveth and the handful of men and women that had accompanied him. Iorveth caught his eye and made his way over to him. 

Geralt stared at his long, lean, supple… hands.  _ As if that makes it any better, _ the voice from within, the one that was usually screaming, snarked at him. 

“You’re going to burn yourself.” The elf said, unimpressed as ever.

“What?” Geralt said, making a damned fool of himself, as ever. 

Iorveth rolled his eye then leaned over and blew the candle out. Geralt stared at him, not quite slack-jawed. Until he faintly registered a distant pain coming from his hand. 

He looked at it. “Ow.” He said, his response delayed by several seconds. 

“Indeed.” Iorveth said before sitting down primly across from Geralt. His scoia’tael flanked him awkwardly, there wasn’t much room for them to hover behind him. He waved them off and they glanced at each other before slinking off awkwardly into the inn.

“They look like sullen youths instructed to mingle at a party where they do not know anyone nor wish to.” Geralt remarked before sucking on his now throbbing finger.

“In many ways they are gwynbleidd, not one of them is over a century old.” Iorveth side and stole Geralt’s tankard.

“And you are?” Geralt asked him. It was probably impolite but… well, he was curious.

Iorveth just raised his eyebrow at him and took a sip of the ale. He made a face but didn’t comment on the quality of it, making it the most diplomatic he’d ever seen him. He didn’t answer. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes; Geralt staring into the flame and Iorveth into his, really Geralt’s, now empty tankard. 

“Are all witcher’s as constantly unhappy as you?” Iorveth didn’t look up. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the question. “Can’t say for sure, only remember a few and from what I’ve been told there aren’t many more aside from them. But yeah, from what I know of them. Least they remember why…” he trailed off. Iorveth let the subject drop, though Geralt felt a certainty that he’d bring it up once more in the future. He fell back into his game of lighting and extinguishing the candle. 

By the end of the night he’d be lucky if there was any candle left. 

Iorveth reached out with a deft hand and moved the candle out of his reach. 

“Am I bothering you?” Geralt asked, irritated.

“Obviously.” 

Geralt waved his hand and lit the candle once more, staring into Iorveth’s eyes, challenging him to make the next move. Iorveth’s eyes lit up with the challenge and he moved as if to-

“Geralt!” Skalen was standing at the edge of their table, a few dwarves and men gathered behind him. Iorveth’s scotia’tael watched, alert but unmoving, from their positions. “We were wondering if you and your” he coughed “friend here wouldn’t join in in tonight's arm wrestling tournament.”

Geralt didn’t answer immediately, though the question was obviously meant only for him, and looked towards his generally unhappy companion. He raised a questioning eyebrow. Iorveth’s face remained impassive. Geralt looked at the small horde of anxiously waiting onlookers and sighed. 

“Sorry Skalen, tonights not a good night, besides I’ve beaten everyone willing to wrestle here thrice over. Don’t think it’s fair at this point.” Geralt said, trying to let the crowd down gently. He was inexplicably wary of anxious crowds.

“You speak too quickly gwynbleidd for there is one you have not yet bested among these… fine folk.” A voice said. A voice very near. A voice Geralt wouldn’t have expected to arm wrestle in a million years… although, the voice did have such intriguing… hands. 

He blinked at the voice, at Iorveth, “Really?” he said, like the bright witcher he was. 

Iorveth didn’t wink at him, Geralt didn’t think he knew how, but he did smirk and dramatically lift his arm up on the table. If there were any pairs of eyes that weren’t on them before, they certainly were now. He could  _ feel _ Dandelion’s eyes burning into him, though whatever message they were trying to convey he categorically ignored. 

“Bold choice squirrel.” Geralt said, lifting his hand to mirror Iorveth’s. The elf smirked as the crowd cheered. They leaned in and grasped hands. Iorveth’s hand was warm to the touch, pleasant, more than pleasant. His skin wasn’t soft but it wasn’t unpleasantly rough. Geralt had to stop himself from stroking it with his other hand. He kept it firmly on the table, more to restrain himself than to abstain from cheating.

A dwarf Geralt didn’t recognize called out, snapping him out of his reverie, “Three!”

Others joined in “Two!”

“ONE!”


End file.
